


try not to be a martyr

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Deaf Clint Barton, Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Short & Sweet, Wholesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 03:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16232990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: He’s spent decades being hurt by everyone around him, being tortured and betrayed, and yet there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s protected here, with this quirky, messy-haired archer who’s smiling at him.





	try not to be a martyr

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short thing! I was asked for some comfort fluff with Bucky having a nightmare and this is what eventuated. Clint Barton is my baby. Send me prompts on Tumblr @ shatteredhourglass!

Clint’s eyes snap open the minute Bucky steps towards him, despite the way he’d been snoring just a few seconds ago.

His gaze flicks straight to where Bucky’s standing a few feet away, eyes wide and dark, and then he flails and falls off of the couch. There’s a loud thump, but he seems more startled rather than actually hurt. Bucky glances around and notices his hearing aids lying on the coffee table, gleaming dully in the light from the kitchen. Whoops. He’s just unsuccessfully sneaked up on a deaf man. That’s probably not a good thing. He shifts on his feet nervously as Clint picks himself up off the floor, looks away when those blue eyes assess him. This is Clint’s floor, his couch, and Bucky’s rugged up in full winter gear, jacket over hoodie over shirt over yet another shirt. Clint’s just in a pair of curiously-patterned boxers and a top that Bucky’s fairly sure he left here the other night when he’d been pushed down over the kitchen counter. Not that he’s complaining, but he’s not here for sex this time. He’s not sure __what__ he’s here for.

He’s still- he can still _feel_ the ice, the wind shrieking in his ears, the dream still clinging to him stubbornly. He’d woken up in a panic, throat dry and desperate to escape Steve’s concerned looks, so he’d automatically made his way to Clint’s floor. Steve is- he keeps remembering his hands around Steve's throat, Steve letting him do whatever he wanted, and it's not right. Clint wouldn't let him hurt anyone. Clint knows what it's like, remembering these horrific things you didn't do but you did do at the same time. But it’s three in the morning and they’re not even dating, they’ve just fucked a few times - yet Bucky doesn't have anywhere else to go. His heart’s rattling in his chest painfully and he thinks about just leaving, escaping into the night to run around the streets until he stops shaking quite so hard. That’d be fine, wouldn’t it? If he just left. No one would miss him.

Clint’s hands settling on his chest, warm and familiar, snap him out of his head.

“Hey,” Clint says to him, too loud. But he’s solid and grounding in the mental mess that Bucky’s currently in, and he’s watching with those ever-focused eyes. His thumb grazes Bucky’s neck gently, and then Clint’s stepping right into his space, pressing up against him.

“Bad night?”

Bucky bites his lip, doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to admit he’s a fucking disaster underneath all the smart jokes and sex and flirting. But Clint’s looking at him like he understands, like he doesn’t mind in the slightest if Bucky’s not as sane as he pretends he is in the light of day. A hand threads through his sweat-damp hair, scratches gently at his scalp. He leans into it, closing his eyes briefly. Clint doesn’t seem particularly deterred by the lack of answering on his part, because lips press gently to his chin, then his nose, and then Clint reaches with his free hand for the metal of Bucky’s left hand and begins pulling him towards the bedroom. Bucky goes, because he’s tired and worn-out and he can’t quite comprehend what’s going on.

Clint’s bedroom is absurdly purple, assorted things thrown here and there, arrows sticking out of the dresser and old magazines on the floor, and Bucky both loves it and hates it at the same time. Clint leads him around the mess of clothes and other stuff and then flops onto the bed. Bucky spends a minute just looking at him sprawled on top of the sheets, rumpled and soft and _perfect_ , and wonders again what the hell he’s doing here. Clint’s not his wife, he doesn’t have any obligation to do anything about Bucky’s nightmares and yet he’s looking like he thinks Bucky’s something precious and rare. It feels like a dream when one muscled arm reaches up and grab him by the front of his hoodie, pulling him down onto the bed. He settles onto his side and Clint pulls him closer, leaving just enough space so that his lips can be read if needed.

“I have bad nights too,” Clint admits quietly. “Once I woke up and Natasha was wearing these stupid blue contacts for a mission and I thought- I thought Loki was back. Managed to break three of her fingers before she got me in a headlock and convinced me it was really her.”

“Three of her fingers?”

“I caught her by surprise,” Clint reasons.

“You’re selling yourself short,” Bucky says, because Natasha might be dangerous but so is Clint, in his own strange way. Although it’s hard to convince himself of that when Clint feels so goddamn _safe_. The Avenger Hawkeye could kill him in a heartbeat, a fraction of a second, but Clint Barton only ever touches him with the intent of making him feel good, nothing less. He’s spent decades being hurt by everyone around him, being tortured and betrayed, and yet there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s protected here, with this quirky, messy-haired archer who’s smiling at him like he’s made of gold.

Clint’s hand is back in his hair, petting steadily.

Somewhere between the third blink and the next, the memories scratching at his skull ease up and then fade away. They'll be back, he's sure, but for now there's just him and Clint and the  It's quiet suddenly, and he lets out a relieved sigh. Clint smiles at him, a pleased barely-there curl of his lips, and he may not be able to hear but Bucky's pretty sure Clint has some sort of sixth sense for knowing how to deal with him. It's nice. 

“Thank you,” he breathes.

“For what? It’s what any loving boyfriend would do. Nothing special, Barnes.”

“Boyfriend,” Bucky echoes, quietly. It sounds right, somehow, even though it feels childish. He’s a hundred years old and has killed so, so many people and he has a _boyfriend_.

It’s only a few inches to close the gap and kiss the smile right off of Clint’s face. Fingers trail against his jaw gently and he slips his right hand down to curve over the dip in his waist. Clint’s warm, soft in a way he really shouldn’t be when Bucky’s seen what he’s done, what he can do with a weapon in his hand. But he’s here, and he’s Bucky’s, for now, and it’s safe. It’s safe to have this. He’s not okay, not by a long stretch, but maybe he can be one day, with Clint standing by his side.


End file.
